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The chilled gust of stale air spilling unceremoniously out of the flimsy car vent stings your split lip, but you desperately need the cool reprieve on your skin. You thank whatever karmic forces are at work that you had the foresight to finally get your air conditioning fixed earlier this week. Otherwise, you might pass out at the wheel. At this point, you’re running on fumes, and you continue to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself awake at least until you pull into Steve’s driveway. You hadn’t even discussed it; you knew you’d be sleeping at his house tonight. At least you were still on the same page about one thing.
For the tenth time since you pulled away from the hospital parking lot, you’re greeted with the sole noise accompanying the drive: the boy to your right sighing.
Normally a dreamy sort of sound, one that you adore, usually paired with that endearing pinch of his brows together, it only turns your blood colder now. You’re mad at him, furious even. Enraged. And he has made it very clear that the feeling is mutual.
“You don’t have to keep sighing like the Queen of England,” you tell him. “If you wanna say something, just say it.”
He doesn’t respond right away, staring out the window at the passing streetlights. His jaw clenches, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “I don’t have anything else to say to you right now, Y/n,” he says, finally. His voice is tired, strained, like a rope pulled taut.
And you believe him. He had certainly said enough in the boat at Lover’s Lake, and past the gate, and in the Upside Down, and at the hospital. And you had said your fair share too. A chill runs up your spine at the memory.
Mere minutes ago, you had jumped into the lake after Steve and Robin, not able to bear the thought of them being down there alone. Nancy and Eddie had followed quickly after, and you all miraculously were able to fend off the hoard of demobats with minimal damage.
You didn’t even have the words or the wherewithal to describe how scared you were when you dove through that water and passed through the gate. Seeing Steve, being torn apart, screaming in pain, you swear your feet moved faster than a train. Equipped with the oar that you had grabbed from the boat, you made fast work of saving Steve alongside your friends.
Attempting to run to the Wheeler’s house-- or the nightmare dimension version of it-- you had stopped under rock cover to help Steve stop the bleeding from the gaping wound those bats had so kindly given him.
“Is this fun for you?” you asked. “Is that what this is? It’s just a delightful little hobby of yours, nearly getting yourself killed?”
He hissed in pain, eyes scrunching shut. “Yeah, if I make one thing clear, I hope it’s that this is really fun for me,” he said, words dripping with contempt and exhaustion. “You shouldn’t be here.”
And in your adrenaline-fueled emotional whirlwind, you misread the situation. You did what you tend to do in moments of intense panic. Still processing the very recent sight of your boyfriend being strangled by monsters, you joked when you probably shouldn’t have.
“You want Eddie to do this part?” you had quipped, whisking wet strands of hair out of your eyes, and continued to tighten the fabric around his abdomen as a makeshift bandage.
“I’m not joking, Y/n,” he said, wincing as you faltered slightly in your movements. “I told you not to come.”
“Okay,” you scoffed, “Well somebody’s got to be here.” You finished tying the fabric around him, tight enough to keep him from bleeding out. “I don’t like that any of us are here. It’s kind of a shitty situation, but I figured we needed all hands on deck.”
“You’re gonna get yourself hurt, or worse, and this is exactly what I wanted to avoid.” He pushed himself off of the stone with a great amount of effort and started walking ahead again.
“Hey!” You scrambled to catch up with him, your own body aching from the strain of everything you’ve been through, but your frustration fueled your movement. “If anyone should be mad here, it’s me!” you snapped, finally matching his pace. The rest of your group followed, Robin rambling about bacteria and particles and whatnot.
He shot you a glance, eyes shadowed with pain and fatigue, but the hard set of his jaw told you he wasn’t letting up. "You don’t get it," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you.
"I don’t get it?" Your voice rose, incredulous. "You’re the one that dove in unannounced, Steve! What part of that don’t I get?" You scoffed, pushing your hair out of your face with shaking fingers, the adrenaline buzzing under your skin. "I mean… No warning, no backup—nothing. Just you, playing the hero again!"
His eyes snapped to yours, blazing. "Don’t turn this around on me. We’ve been over this, Y/n. You weren’t supposed to follow me! I told you not to!"
“Do you not remember the part where I saved your life?”
Steve stopped abruptly, turning to face you, his face flushed with anger and something else—something raw and vulnerable underneath all that exhaustion. "I didn’t ask you to!" he practically shouted, his chest heaving.
A large crackle of thunder and the deafening sound of a new swarm of demobats reminded you of the urgency at hand, and you all hurried along, running toward the Wheeler house. You and Steve bickered incessantly throughout the night.
Once you arrive at his house, no more words-- or even glances-- are exchanged. You both keep your heads down, wordlessly going through the motions, still shellshocked. Steve makes a quick stop at the phone downstairs to make sure Robin made it home safe, and that she’ll be okay for the night.
Upstairs, you peel your clothes off and hop into the shower quickly, taming your rat’s nest of hair as best you can manage. Steve starts cleaning himself off in the shower adjacent to his room, while you take his parents’ shower in the master bedroom. His parents aren’t home. They haven’t been in weeks.
As you scrub the debris and grime off of your skin, your mind flashes back to last summer. Steve had told you not to get involved. Demanded, actually. When you had stumbled upon the whiteboard full of russian translations in the Scoops breakroom while visiting him, you quickly unraveled all the details of the latest attempt to save the world. Steve had made it very clear that he didn’t want you attached to this. You were mildly offended, but your relationship with him was new at the time, so you honored his pleas and stayed far away from Starcourt that night. And when you heard whispers of the mall fire, and the tragedies that took place that night, and bit your nails down to the bone, and cried yourself sick until you found out he was okay… you vowed never again to let Steve talk you out of getting involved.
After Officer Callahan had realized he wasn’t getting any witness statements out of either of you tonight on account of your inability to stop bickering for five seconds, he finally left you both alone in Steve’s hospital room. Not completely out of the woods; you still had to wait for his rabies test to come back. Expecting the nurse to reenter the room at any moment, you both wasted no time reigniting your unending argument.
“You need to get that scrape checked out,” he told you. A nasty red gash striped itself across your arm; you had acquired it from the tentacles-- or vines, whatever you were all calling them these days-- when they had pinned you up against the wall of the Creel house.
“I’m fine,” you disagreed.
“Y/n…” he chastised you, eyes shut, fighting another headache.
“Steve, I said I’m fine,” you told him, teeth gritted. “Owens said to come back in the morning, so I’ll come back in the morning.”
“Yeah, but if there’s some… I don’t know, some upside-down gunk in there--”
“What are they gonna do about it tonight? The doctors here are gonna be able to figure out the cure to inter-dimensional bacteria overnight?”
He brought his hand up and emphasized his point, “I’d rather be safe and--”
“Oh, yeah. You’re very concerned with safety tonight. That much I can tell.”
Neither of you had slept in well over a day, and the bags under his eyes from both lack of sleep and worry seemed permanently baked into his face at this point. But the ring around his neck, still angry red, stole your attention away from his eyes. And you’re reminded just how differently this night could have panned out if you had listened to him.
The hospital bed creaked as he sat up straighter, his face flushed. "Could you just listen to me, for once, Y/n?” he pleaded, hands wild, “I mean do you ever listen? What is it gonna take for you to stop following me into dangerous situations? I tell you not to follow me to find Eddie, I tell you not to follow me into the lake, I tell you to go home, but you never listen! ”
His words went in one ear and out the other. He had already said something to this exact tune back past the gate. You were fighting in circles at this point. But that didn’t stop you.
"Well that’s not really an option." You laughed bitterly and shook your head.
“I think that’s a little dramatic.”
“I’m not-- Steve, staying out of it is not an option for me any more than it is for you.”
Steve groaned in frustration, running a hand through his tangled hair. He desperately needed a shower. "God, you don’t get it, do you?" His voice was low, almost pleading, but the edge of anger was still there. "This is what I’m supposed to do. But you—you’re not supposed to be in the middle of this shit."
"What you’re supposed to-- Why am I not supposed to be involved?" You leaned in closer, not caring how sharp your words sounded. "You’re not the only one who cares about keeping people safe. If you think I’m just going to stand by and watch you risk your life without doing something about it, then you might be an idiot." With that last word, you saw his heart shatter more than it already had today. You wished you could take it back, but he kept charging forward.
“Wow.” He shook his head, clearly at a loss. "I’m not asking you to stand by. I’m asking you to stay safe. There’s a difference."
“And I’m telling you I can’t. Not when it’s you out there, Steve. Not when you’re the one putting your neck on the line.” You locked eyes, once again both aware of your particular choice of words in this moment. Steve instinctively brought his fingers up to delicately rub at the tender skin where the demobat had nearly strangled him. “You think I’m going to sit here and wait for someone to tell me you didn’t make it back? Huh? Steve, I saved your life tonight. Don’t act like I had a choice."
"Well, maybe you shouldn’t have!" His voice cracked with the strain, and for a second, you saw something raw flicker across his face.
“Why do you keep saying that?” you asked him, desperately.
"Maybe I’d be better off if you didn’t keep throwing yourself into every dangerous situation just because you think you have to fix things." He wouldn’t meet your eyes, except for one split second. His eyes darted to yours, and he immediately looked away, focus trained back to the ground.
His words hit like a punch to the gut, and you knew you were both spiraling. You should’ve turned the other cheek and unpacked this all tomorrow when you both have clearer heads. But you were too tired, too drained to keep your emotions in check. "You really think that?"
“I don’t know,” he said, sighing, bringing his fingers up to rub at his forehead. “I don’t know anymore, Y/n.”
“You think I’m here because I have some… some complex?”
“Y/n, you’re not--”
“Need I remind you that I went back through that gate with you, and everyone else, to kill that motherfucker. And that was the plan. That wasn’t some impulse I followed, and it wasn’t some selfish idea I had. I was there, just like you were, as a part of the plan that we all came up with together.”
“You insisted on coming back through the gate,” he said, matter-of-factly. And before you could argue, he stood firm, shaking his head, “You did. I wanted you to stay in the house with the kids. But you had to argue with me, because of course, you always know best.”
You raked your hands through your hair. Both of your voices were raised far more than was appropriate for a hospital. “Oh my god--”
“The kids wouldn’t have been alone in that house if you had stayed there, like I wanted you to,” he told you, and you knew exactly what was coming next.
He was a speeding train off its tracks, and the naive part of your brain wanted to believe he would never say this to you, but he was following his thought to its conclusion, for better or worse.
“And Max would’ve been safe.” His voice had never sounded so cold.
It felt like he had slapped you. It felt like you wanted to slap him. Like all of the aggression of the past few days had all-encompassed you both.
“And you would have been, what, exactly?” you asked him, gravely serious.
He would have been dead.
You both stared at each other, unflinchingly, and neither of you had a chance to say anything else before the nurse came back into the room, eyes darting between you like she could tell, just from the energy in the room, that she had interrupted something intense.
The rest of the hospital visit had been a blur, with the rabies test coming back negative, but neither of you cared. The exhaustion clings to your skin like sweat, and every second that passes seems to tighten the knot in your chest.
Once you’re out of the shower, you traipse back into Steve’s room, to find he’s still in the shower. Needing to be extra careful of all of the dressings and stitches, he takes his time.
You instinctively dig through his dresser drawer, finding your favorite pair of his pajama pants, and a worn t-shirt. But what catches your attention is the sheet of notebook paper, folded up in the corner. You recognize it instantly. Back from when things were easier. For you, at least. When your biggest fear was being rejected by the cute sailor scooping you ice cream. The folded paper had been a mix of scribbled, awkward confessions and dumb jokes—his first attempt at asking you out, written in frustration because he couldn’t find the nerve to say it aloud.
You unfold it now, the edges worn and tattered from the number of times you’ve read it. Despite everything that’s happened since, the note still carries that same charm, a reminder of who he was before everything got so complicated. Before the fights, the bruises, and the weight of trying to save the world again and again.
A soft smile tugs at your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. The warmth of that summer feels so far away now, buried under the stress and danger you’ve both faced since then.
The sound of the shower turning off pulls you from your thoughts. You quickly fold the note back up and tuck it away, slipping into his pajama pants. The exhaustion settles in your bones as you hear Steve moving in the bathroom, the familiar rustle of a towel and the soft thud of his feet on the tile.
You sit on the edge of the bed, knees nearly buckling under the weight of the day, unsure of what to say when he comes back into the room, how to break the silence that has been hanging between you since you left the hospital.
Suddenly he appears, wrapped in a towel from the waist down, in his bedroom doorway.
“This is the one thing I’m good for.”
You stare at him. For a moment, you think you’re not hearing him right. The exhaustion has finally caught up to you and you’re making things up. But as he stands in front of you, damp hair drooping into his woeful, wearied eyes, your brain tries to process. He’s clearly gathered his thoughts more succinctly in the shower.
“What?” you ask, leaning forward, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, emblazoned Hawkins High Varsity Basketball .
“This is the one thing I’m good for,” he repeats. “I can’t do the investigating like Nancy, or crack a code like Robin. Or… Or do any of the stuff that everyone else with more than half a brain can do. I mean, Christ, every one of those kids is smarter than--”
“Steve--”
“Let me finish, okay?” His words are serious, urgent, but not as cutting as before. Like if he doesn’t get them out right now, he might lose them.
“Okay,” you breathe out. You pull his sweatshirt over your head, your movements slow and heavy.
“This is the only way that I know how to help. It’s the only way I can help. By protecting these kids. And by protecting you . And I would never be able to live with myself if…” The crack in his voice that has been hovering in his throat for the better part of the night finally claws its way out.
"Steve…" you start again, but he shakes his head, his hair flinging droplets of water across the carpet.
"No, you don’t get it," he says, his voice thick with frustration. "You don’t know what it’s like to feel like this much of an idiot.” Your jaw clenches as you mentally beat yourself up for that. Why did you call him an idiot? “Every time, it’s the same. You and everyone else—you’re all so much smarter, so much better at everything. I can’t do any of that. All I’m good for is... is this. Running headfirst into danger, trying to keep you all alive."
“Steve,” you say softly, standing up and taking a hesitant step toward him. “You’re not an idiot. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He shakes his head, not meeting your eyes, his damp hair sticking to his forehead. “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.”
“I’m not. I’m saying it because it’s true.” Your voice is firmer now, though there’s a softness underneath, a plea for him to believe you. “Do you have any idea how many times you’ve saved us? Every year? Every time shit hits the fan? You’re the one who keeps everyone together. You’re the one who gets us through this mess—every single time.”
He doesn’t answer, his jaw tight. He looks away, staring at the floor.
“And not just because you run headfirst into battle, Steve,” you continue, your voice softer now. “Because you’ve got a good heart. Do you know how many times I would fall to pieces if I didn’t have you?”
“Well, you’re--”
“No, listen to me,” you tell him. “You’re so much smarter than you give yourself credit for, honey. I mean, I know I’ve only been a part of this world for a little while now, but from the stories Robin tells, this world would’ve been toast if they didn’t have your cool head and your quick thinking.”
“It doesn’t matter, though,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes still downcast. “If I would’ve been able to come up with a better plan, or be faster, Max wouldn’t be--”
“Hey. No,” you tell him. You all had to practically pry him away from the hospital tonight; he only relented when the staff told him she wouldn’t be ready for visitors until tomorrow at the earliest. And they had called her mother, who would be waiting for her to wake up. They were optimistic. You take a step closer, standing right in front of him now. “That was not your fault, Steve.”
His breath shudders, and he finally looks up at you, his expression twisted with guilt and self-doubt. “Even if that’s not my fault, I could’ve screwed everything up even more,” he mutters. “I almost did. If you hadn’t been there…”
“But I was there. And I’m still here.” You reach out and take his hand, squeezing it gently. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
He lets out a bitter laugh, his hand limp in yours. “I’m supposed to be the one keeping you safe, not the other way around.”
“God, is it 1950?” you joke, and he chuckles softly. “We keep each other safe, Steve. That’s how it works. It’s always been like that. You’re not a one-man army. I don’t want you to be.”
His arms tighten around you, and for a moment, the world falls away. It’s just the two of you, clinging to each other in the quiet of his bedroom, both broken and bruised from the night but still standing. Still here.
“I just can’t stop thinking about how… If something did go wrong-- If I did, you know--”
“Steve--”
“I just… If something happened, my parents wouldn’t know. You know how they are; they haven’t been home in weeks. They’d never even know if I never came back.”
“But I would,” you tell him.
He finally pulls back and his eyes search yours, weary and glassy. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, the emotion of the night still heavy in his voice. “For what I said earlier. Past the gate, and at the hospital. I didn’t mean any of it.”
“I’m sorry too,” you whisper, stepping closer, your forehead resting against his. “I didn’t mean everything I said either.”
He closes his eyes, and for a moment, you both stand there, wrapped in the quiet of the room, the storm finally settling into something calmer. You can feel the exhaustion pulling at you, the weight of the day pressing down on your shoulders, but for the first time in hours, there’s a sense of peace.
“I’m so tired,” Steve admits, his voice barely audible, the vulnerability in his words breaking your heart.
“I know,” you whisper back, your hand slipping from his chest to his arm, gently pulling him toward the bed. “Come on, let’s get some sleep.”
He nods, his breath still uneven, and you guide him to the bed. The mattress dips beneath his sturdy weight, and he finally rests.
You lay down next to him, and without hesitation, he wraps his arm around you, pulling you close. The warmth of his body is comforting, and as you close your eyes, the buzzing in your head finally starts to lift, replaced by the steady rhythm of his breathing next to you.
“I found the note,” you say, your voice soft, almost hesitant, not sure if he’s already asleep.
Steve inhales. “The… one from last summer?”
You nod, knowing he can feel your head moving against his chest rather than see it. “Yeah. It’s still in your drawer.”
He’s silent for a moment. “God, I was so chickenshit back then.”
"You weren’t chickenshit," you murmur, your voice soft in the dim light of his bedroom. You didn’t feel like turning his desk light off. Not tonight. "You were just... figuring things out."
Steve shifts slightly beside you, his arm still wrapped around you protectively, as though even now he can’t help but try to keep you safe. He lets out a breath, his voice still rough as he responds. "Yeah, well, I could’ve been a little braver. Told you how I felt instead of acting like an idiot.”
“Well I was disarmingly beautiful back then,” you joke.
He huffs a soft, tired laugh. “You still are, baby.” You're delighted that his pet name for you has returned after hearing only your name all night.
You sit up, peering at him down the slope of your nose. “And you’re not an idiot,” you tell him. His eyes are softer now, the hard edges from earlier finally smoothed out by the quiet of the moment. "Steve, you’ve always been brave. You’ve saved me and everyone else more times than I can count. But you’re more than just brave, and I wish you knew that. I hope you know that now."
For a while, Steve doesn’t say anything. He finally sits up to match you, and holds you tight, his forehead resting against yours again, as though grounding himself in your presence. When he does speak, his voice is soft, almost hesitant. "I’m scared," he admits, the words barely more than a whisper. "Every time something like this happens, I’m scared I’m gonna lose you. And I don’t know what I’d do if I did."
Your heart tightens at his admission, and you reach up, cupping his face gently in your hands. "You’re not gonna lose me," you promise, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. "We’ve made it through everything so far, haven’t we?"
He nods, his eyes searching yours, but there’s still a lingering fear in them that you can’t quite soothe. "Yeah," he breathes out, "we have."
"And we’ll make it through this, too. Together." You lean in close, feeling his breath mix with yours.
But he hesitates. “Baby, your lip,” he says, mindful of the split.
You brush your thumb gently across his jaw. "Please just kiss me, Steve," you whisper, a small, reassuring smile playing on your lips.
Steve’s eyes soften, his gaze flickering over your face as if to make sure. His fingers brush your cheek with that gentle touch he has, the one he reserves only for you, and in the quiet of his room, he finally closes the space between you. His lips meet yours, careful and soft, almost tentative, like he’s trying to capture the feeling and hold onto it forever. You’re reminded of all the reasons you fell in love with this boy, even when he was an ice-cream-scooping schmuck, and even when he throws himself headfirst into danger.
You’ll both go right back to the hospital in the morning, to try to visit Max, and try to fix this as best you can. Together .